Keep Me Please
by Geu23
Summary: He disappeared. And no matter what they tried they couldn't find him. They searched the usual places and the unusual areas but still he wasn't there. Until they finally got a tip led them to him but by the time they found him, he was changed so completely that no one could recognize it was him.
1. Found Me

_**Well, this is my second Sherlock fic and I hope it goes a lot better than my other one... It was supposed to be a oneshot but I figured that I would make a multi-chapter fic instead. I'm not even a half done and there is a lot to explain and I am looking forward to writing the rest of it...**_

_**This is actually a cross-over of Fullmetal Alchemist and Sherlock but you don't have to understand FMA at all, everything (well, the important bits, anyway) will eventually be explained. Hopefully this won't fail...**_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own anything. **_

_**Warning: Nil at this moment**_

_**See ya in the next chapter maybe?**_

__**Keep Me Please  
#1.** **Found Me**

_Tears pooled over light blue irises as they gazed at the dirty grey ceiling, _it was over_, he was laid on his back, _he couldn't win this time_, bony wrists shackled to the floor, _he lost_, scars marred his body, _it was over and he lost_, ribs could be seen, could be counted, _he couldn't return home this time_, another warm lupine body was chained beside him in similar condition, _this was it_, energy hummed in the air, _I'm sorry_, tears spilled over as the electric blue light glowed, _Goodbye John_, the light turned blinding, and the blood curdling screams started._

* * *

He was hoping for it. He was dreading it. The call came.

"_We've found him."_

He sounded defeated; his usually confident voice was reduced to a tired murmur. He sounded so different.

"_We need you to come to the site, John. A car will be waiting for you outside."_

And now he was standing outside an old, apparently abandoned building somewhere far from London. It was absolute chaos, people were yelling, others with white robes were cuffed and shoved into vans, an ambulance was on standby with multiple people with the bright orange shock blanket clinging on their trembling shoulders.

Someone cleared their throat and he spun around, meeting the gaze of Mycroft Holmes. The man looked different, his skin was pale and his eyes were devoid of emotion, with dark circles around them and he appeared to have lost a fair bit of weight.

"What's happened? Where's Sherlock?"

Mycroft beckoned him to follow, his knuckles bleached white from clutching his umbrella too tightly, and he walked towards the open doors. John frowned; worry gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

Where was Sherlock? Mycroft said that he had found the man, so where was he?

"Mycroft? Where is he?"

His stride doesn't falter, "You must be wondering why my people are arresting the ones in white robes. They are part of a cult that believes in a dead art, the art of Alchemy."

They walked pass many closed doors and through many halls; John could hear people and animals behind them. How was this important? What was the connection between this alchemy and Sherlock?

"They decided to experiment. They first focused on trying to get it to work and when they succeeded they decided to concentrate on the organic branch of alchemy. They started combining two or more organisms to form one product; a chimera. It worked, however the end results were horrendous.

"Then an idea got into one of their crazed minds and they started experimenting with people. A human-animal hybrid; the intelligence of man but the weapons and killer instinct of an animal."

Horror settled inside his very core. No. No. No! That should have been impossible! How? How could they have done this and not have been caught for so long?

"They tried experimenting on themselves first but realised that they couldn't lose so many of their followers and took to abducting people off the streets. And if they had died – the ones in the very beginning died very quickly – they were dumped in alleys and rubbish dumps.

"I believe Sherlock was investigating this case. The people who went missing and then they'd turn up dead some time later with animal features warping their decaying, cold bodies."

Yes, Sherlock had been on a case when he had disappeared.

"Why was Sherlock taken?"

Mycroft looked over his shoulder, staring at the doctor before he opened a door and stepped through it. Cages lined the walls, most were empty, and others weren't. Decaying bodies were strewn on the floor; the smell was foul, absolutely horrible. John followed Mycroft, a sleeve pressed against his mouth and nose.

"They started to pick targets with most potential to survive the transformation. Sherlock happened to be getting a little bit too close for comfort and he was an ideal subject."

Another door and they walked down a flight of stairs, the lighting was far too bright to be considered comfortable and John noticed a group of men leaning against the wall further down, their faces slightly green. Mycroft ignored them and walked into the room, John right behind him.

There was a lot of growling and hissing. Mutant animals thrashed against the bars of their confining cage, their teeth snapping at metal and claws slashing against the concrete floor. Some were moaning and crying out, laying completely still, their sides heaving, clearly in pain.

"They got to Sherlock and inevitably he too was subjected to their experimenting. I called you here because he may recognise you."

John halted, feeling sick to the bone, "Why not you?"

Mycroft looked at him, mask in place but John knew the man was upset. "I've tried. It didn't work."

John scowled, his insides twisting. What if Sherlock didn't recognise him? He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. What would happen then?

"Come along, Dr Watson. He is right this way," Mycroft said, turning left.

More cages, more men pale and ill, more growling, more dead mutated bodies, more moans of pain… And finally they reached the one cage that held his changed roommate.

Mycroft remained silent and John stared.

Pale blue eyes stared at them, it snarled at them, its teeth sharp and lethal, scars littered the thin body, its claws were attached to a cross between paw and human hands and feet, sandy brown dominated its furry body however along the spine, tail and especially on the neck and upper half of its head was a mass of stringy dark brown hair.

"How…? How do you know it's him? For all you know it could be someone else."

Please. Please not Sherlock.

"It is him. The files confirmed it."

This was completely illogical! How could a cult of insane people manage to revive a dead art?

The chimera – Sherlock – stood his ground, growling with his teeth bared and fur bristling, eyes fixed on them.

John moved closer to the cage and crouched down, elbows braced against his knees as he stared at him. Sherlock backed away, ears pressed against his skull; his growl rumbled loudly, mouth pulled into a snarl.

"Sherlock? It's John."

John stared into blue eyes and hoped – prayed – that Sherlock would remember him, would recognise him.

Sherlock's growling trailed off, pale eyes wide and ears still pressed back. He ran his long tongue against his teeth, his paws shifting uncertainly.

"Hey," John continued softly, taking the change in Sherlock as progress, "it's alright, Sherlock. I'll take you back to Baker Street and we'll see Mrs Hudson and she'll make tea and fuss like always."

Sherlock's head lowered, eyes peering at John, his shoulders hunching. He whined, tail tucked in between his legs. He looked so small and fragile… That wasn't right…

Mycroft shifted behind him, "Keep talking to him, Dr Watson."

Sherlock whined again and his maw opened and, _**"…John…?"**_

Both men stilled. The voice… That voice was warped – heavily so – but it was definitely Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked at him pleadingly, blue eyes searching. John and Mycroft shared a glance and John shuffled forward, hand outstretched but not touching the cage.

"Yeah," he licked his dry lips, "I'm here."

Sherlock studied him with wary eyes. He stepped away from the bars, his head shaking.

"_**No…" **_he moaned, looking devastated, _**"**__**am sorry… I very sorry… Make John sad… Make John worry… Sorry …"**_

__**Tbc?**


	2. Brother Dear

**_Well, hello again! Back for the second chapter? Of course you are :D  
_I have no idea why I started with that but I just wanted to put that there XD Here's the second chapter of Keep Me Please! I hope you are enjoying this fic and I do apologize if the writing style is erratic and rushed at points but I have no idea how to make it better, I didn't get my friend to help me look through the whole thing like the previous chapter. I couldn't get her online... And I think she needs a break from me before I get too annoying and I need to not depend on her on making the scene so much better!**

**Need to make my brain work, it's being reduced to mush at some points... Work brain, you're in my skull for a reason!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything**

**Time: It's 12:07am... Why is this here? **

**Warning: Tugs at your feels? Maybe not...**

**See ya next time maybe? Definitely a next chapter~**

**Keep Me Please  
#2. Brother Dear**

Mycroft watched as John managed to coax Sherlock out of his filthy prison, his transformed brother trembling and whining, as he crawled out, his warped body pressed close to the floor. John whispered softly, his voice low and gentle as Sherlock approached him. There was only John and Sherlock at that moment; both staring at each other as one cautiously limped forward.

There was a clatter and running feet as an agent – inexperienced and eager to impress – ran towards them, syringe in hand. Sherlock had tensed at the loud noise and he bristled at the rapidly approaching man, a growl – warning and loud – rumbled in his chest, and when the agent got too close he lunged forward with a snarl, teeth sharp and deadly.

The man screamed as rows of teeth tore through his uniform and ripped into tender flesh, blood pouring out of his jagged wound as he fought to rip his arm out of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock remained firm in his bite, growl rumbling deeply in his chest.

The other mutated beings thrashed in their barred cages, banging against the metal and shrieking loudly as they watched a dog and a man fight, the heady scent of blood filling the air as the wound bled. The warped creatures were filled with bloodlust as the scent reached their mutated noses.

"SHERLOCK! Let go!"

Sherlock stilled, hair bristling and jaws locked as John reached forward and touched his shoulder. The reaction was explosive. Jaws cracked open as Sherlock swung around and snapped at John, the injured man scooted away, his bleeding hand held tightly against his chest while John tackled the transformed detective to the floor. A loud whine broke the air as John fell onto to him and restrained him, one arm pressed against his neck while the other was placed firmly against his heaving ribcage.

Sherlock tried to turn around, snarling and growling as he struggled to lay a bite on the man restraining him. John was pale but firm in his position, sweat coating his forehead as he fought the stressed canine.

"Calm down, Sherlock! Get a hold of yourself!"

The beast that was once his brother stilled, motionless under John's arms. He whined, loud and painful, as he panted, recovering his lost breath. John frowned guiltily and he talked softly, soothing the frazzled canine.

Mycroft paid the agent no mind as he was escorted out by another man, probably to get the wound looked at by a medic, while others moved quickly between the cages, injecting the bloodthirsty creatures with sedatives. It would be easier to transport them, sedated and rendered completely harmless; less stress for the creatures and less danger for the people working with them.

"Sir, kindly step aside and allow me to sedate... him."

Mycroft turned towards the biting voice and surveyed the figure before him. She was of average height and features, nothing stood out save the harsh tone of her voice. What warranted that, he wondered. As he stood watching, her face was forcedly emotionless, professional as her training demanded, but her eyes burned of fury. She was angry, no, more than angry; she was raging inside. Had the injured man been her colleague? Her friend? Likely even more than that. Was her radiating anger brought on by his foolishness, or by the actions of the provoked animal before her? It must be the latter, Mycroft summed up. Her clear disdain in addressing Sherlock as 'him' expressed that much.

Instantly, Mycroft felt irritated by her.

"Leave it. The doctor will see to it." He turned his back on her.

"But, sir," again her voice was harsh and seeped with anger, "that... beast has already left one man injured tonight. Is that not enough? Must we wait for... it to harm another man before we act! Just because he's..." Her voice trailed off, but Mycroft sensed where she was going with it, and that only provoked him further.

"That man with Sherlock is perfectly capable of handling the situation, more than you would be, I assure you. Kindly hand me the syringe and take your leave. You are not needed here." This time, he continued to stare at her with slight disdain. She took in the situation and conceded. She did not know his name, but she knew he came from a higher authority, one she had no right to question. She was displeased, but she had no choice.

Rigidly she walked towards Mycroft, her manner wary and defensive and her gaze firmly locked on the still but growling Sherlock. She handed Mycroft the syringe and quickly stepped away.

He ignored the woman, his attention going back to John Watson and his brother. His chest hurt, watching his brother struggle against his best friend, snarling and barking. His brother turned beast, that brilliant mind of his reduced to nothing but a raging monster, relying on instinct rather than logic. Mycroft did not like the idea of people treating his brother, his kin, as an animal.

His grip tightened around the syringe, his knuckles turning white. He couldn't make the step forward, to join John and hand the plunger to him.

The other mutated beings were sedated and removed from their cages, their unconscious bodies were carted off into smaller, more transportable containers; ready to be shipped off to the institute that they had prepared for them. Soon all the cages were barren, none of the raging beasts were left…

There was only John and the whimpering Sherlock.

A doctor moved towards him, one of the few last men that linger about waiting for the whimpering canine to be put under and moved away.

"Sir, I believe it is time to give the syringe to the young man," he motioned to John, "and calm the distressed being down. Give me the needle, sir, and we will get this over with."

Mycroft hesitates, unsure whether to proceed towards the exhausted duo and hand the plunger to the doctor. The decision was made for him.

"Sir, give it to me and I'll handle it," the doctor said.

Mycroft's grip around the needle loosened and the doctor understood the gesture because he pried his fingers off and took the syringe from him. Then the man turned around and walked towards the two of them.

He crouched down and, "Sir, would you like to sedate him yourself or would you rather I do it?"

Sherlock whined, clearly unhappy and agitated with another human presence so close to him. John pursed his lips, his brow furrowing.

"I think I'll do it. Hold him down, but not too tightly," John instructed.

The two men worked together and shifted, the doctor handing the syringe to John and eased his hands into position, pressing down on the panting hybrid while John eased off of Sherlock and picked up the plunger and made sure that there were no bubbles.

Sherlock shivered and squirmed, his wide, wide blue eyes transfixed onto the syringe. He whimpered and shook his head, his body thrashing weakly as he tried to twist away from the needle.

"Hey," John said softly, "it'll be alright. Nothing's wrong, everything will be alright."

The needle slid in without resistance and John pressed the plunger. Sherlock shuddered and started whining loudly, eyes scared and frame trembling.

"_**I'm bad," **_he sobbed, deep and wet, _**"I'm sorry I'm bad. 'M so sorry."**_

John looked guilty as he placed the syringe away, his brow creasing as he tried to calm the almost hysterical ex-detective who was sobbing and whimpering, curling tightly. John stroked his friend's neck, soothing the distressed being with soft words.

"_**Not good, I'm not good. 'M sorry John."**_

**Tbc?**


	3. Mycroft's Position

******_Well, this is a really short chapter... And my friend did most of it... This is all her; she's the one who read the raw copy and made it all better so, "Thank you so much!" She's real good at making it sound great... _**

**_Disclaimer: Don't own anything_**

**_Warning: Nuthin at all..._**

**_There will be a 3.2... Just not very soon I guess... I terrible at time!_**

**_Enjoy and your opinions matter, give me suggestions and for all you know it'll be placed in to the story~_**

**Keep Me Please  
#3.1 Mycroft's Position**

What utter devastation. Such blatant disregard for the lives of people who had suffered greatly at the hands of a madman; no qualms for the ruin they caused, the fiend mastermind and his group of disillusioned followers. Mycroft paused the torrent in his mind.

The file was before him. He had pictures. He had charts. He had statements and testimonials, reports of the horrific crimes against nature and men. They were not sane; they lived in their fantasy world.

Humans were not made for this. The bodies forced to warp and shift – muscles, tendons, and bones breaking and forced to reform in a short time. The mind dimmed as a foreign, primitive being was involuntary shoved into them, forced to merge and be one.

His gaze fell on the autopsy of the carcasses they found. Many died, the early experiments; the change was too violent, too harsh, too heinous, causing organs to liquefy, bones to collapse. Broken splinters of bones were like arrows puncturing the flesh and organs. They haemorrhaged blood, their bodies shut down. It had to be terrifying; no doubt the pain was unimaginable. Dying quickly was the only merciful thing throughout their cruel infliction.

He had long learned the art of adopting a mask, an emotionless face that kept his secrets hidden. It was a defence, and it worked well. Nothing broke the unwavering indifference of his shield, nothing, till this.

Sadistic and driven by their thirst for power, they tried different tactics, firmly believing in their ultimate success. They sought a different approach, and in the blood-stained history of their cult, they found a new way. This time, no more sacrifices of their followers for the cause; they instead used people from the streets, taking the ones that no one paid attention to. The invisible people of the streets, no one would notice their absence. It did not matter if they were young or old, male or female – distorted by the truths they held to they cared little, if at all. So long it was not they who suffered.

They called it an ancient art. They used blood to draw circles and runes – enchantments of the fallen; blood of the follower destined with his task, blood of the sacrificed to fulfil the bloodlust of their lore, and blood of the beast that binds a human to an unchangeable future.

Mycroft remembered the brutal voice that shrieked in laughter. None but the merciless leader had spoken, and to him, the results were 'magnificent'. The product was the mind and intellect of a man bound to the body of a beast. There were consequence for this blasphemous union; the intelligence was limited, and weakened as the humans are by the torment, the beast would dominate and left the man-beast combination of a creature with nothing but violent, unbridled strength. The animals were wild and angry, in their world of only pain and survival.

Another shriek of heartless laughter, and the unmasked pride in his voice; to this, Mycroft showed no emotion.

The cult needed their creation to be tamed, and bent to their will. More experimenting, more violations of the laws of nature; they did their most terrible acts in order to condition the animals. More abuse, more torture; they used brute strength and twisted methods to break the creatures' spirits. They spared no cruelty in the pursuit of making the creatures obedient, or at least, controlled. They left the creatures starving, miserable, and barely alive. Natural instincts took over. To survive, the creatures had no choice but to concede to their gleeful masters. They had a name – chimaeras. They were humans locked in the body of a canine, and despite being half human, the beasts in them ruled.

**Tbc?**


End file.
